Sunday, but make it 1968.
Spent today back in that Paris apartment — shutters closed, world burning outside, three of us tangled up in film references and cigarette smoke. The Dreamers isn’t really about anything except how it feels to be twenty and drunk on cinema, where you love something so much it becomes a religion, a dare, a whole language only your people speak.
Bertolucci shoots obsession like a fever dream — velvet light, old movie posters, that particular kind of intimacy…
Isabelle, Théo, Matthew — cinephiles playing at revolution while an actual one happens a few streets away.
It’s indulgent. It’s a little dangerous. It’s gorgeous in a way that makes you want to shut your own curtains and disappear into a film for an afternoon.
This week’s Sunday watch, for anyone who’s ever loved a movie a little too much